


All your truths are questionable

by Hyena_Poison



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Anxiety, Bodhi Rook Needs a Hug, Clueless Bodhi, Eventual Smut, Frustrated Cassian, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:47:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9783098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: In an attempt to gain intel on kyber shipments, the Alliance assigns their best intelligence officers to establish on-going relationships with several of the route's cargo pilots. It's not a first for Cassian, seducing a target; he's handsome and charming and completely confident in his ability to entice and attract.Too bad for him, because his pilot is a clueless mess.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A [ prompt](http://rogueonekink.dreamwidth.org/1084.html?thread=518716#cmt518716) fill.

It’s in an Outer Rim cantina where he first sees his target in the flesh. To call it a bar would be generous; in the warren-like tunnels and caverns that house this moon’s inhabitants, it’s a glorified hole. The place is dark, lit only by buzzing orange-yellow bulbs strung up over the stalactites; smoke shifts like fog, some local herb with a smell that coats his nose and throat. No one, apparently, is concerned about this little not-so-legal den being found; the music is loud, voices and raucous laughter and some sharp-toothed humanoids screeching with an emotion one can only guess at.

 

You’d have to know where to look; in fact, he’d nearly lost his mark, winding after him through dark and abandoned shafts. But here he sits, nursing a drink that might actually be engine run-off and watching a crowded table from the corner of his eye. One of the many pleasures this illicit lair has to offer is a rather thriving gambling scene; sabacc, he knows from the cards, following increasingly complicated and hellish house rules. Not that it seems to phase anyone around the table, credits and docs piling up in the middle.

 

Holos, Cassian finds, are grainy and blue and do no one any true justice. His target is a wiry thing, slim and in constant motion; the rotating holovid on file did not adequately capture the warm brown of his skin. Black hair under goggles, longer than Regulation standards—but he’s just a cargo pilot, an Outer Rim cargo pilot, and that’s so low on the radar it’s easy to miss. He’s still in uniform, though the jacket’s down around his waist, and Cassian thinks that’s more to do with the stagnate heat of the air rather than hiding the Imperial insignia patch. And it’s hot, hot enough that the pilot’s sweating and his hair sticks to his forehead and neck, his sleeveless undershirt dampened flat against his body.

 

Miserably, Cassian shifts the blue parka; he’s hotter than a sun’s surface, and if the coat wasn’t hiding some substantial firepower, Cassian would’ve tossed it off hours ago. A commotion at the table, and he can’t smother the urge to swing his head around—the game is over, and everyone grumbles and swears as his mark rakes in the pot; they haggle some then, trading spoils lost in previous hands. The next round is gearing up and no one looks especially upset when the pilot tosses a credit to the dealer before wandering away.

 

The walls are lined with shallow alcoves, dim and rough-hewn; the pilot settles into one, starts scrolling over a datapad resting on his knees. Cassian buys two more drinks and runs eyes over the thin crowd—no one watching him, no one watching the pilot—then slides onto the stone bench next to the object of his mission.

 

Cassian bumps the pilot’s leg with a knee, holds out a drink and with an easy grin, offers: “Drink?”

 

The man startles and shrinks away from him a little, lithe fingers clutching the pad when it starts to tumble off his lap. He has big eyes, wide and dark that dart from Cassian’s face to the cup he’s pushing at him. “Ah. Okay,” he shuffles the pad away to take the cup and Cassian makes sure their fingers brush, “thanks. Thank you.” The pilot rotates it in his hands, not looking at his companion before downing half of it—Cassian is a tiny bit impressed, since it’s cheap shit and probably radio-active, has to burn like crazy—without a blink.

 

When it’s clear the man isn’t going to engage him further, Cassian waves a hand through his line of vision, “I’m Ves.”

 

“Bodhi,” the pilot replies, gulps the rest of his drink and gives Cassian a little crooked smile. That attention lasts for a blink before his mark switches focus, scans over the bar to land on the current round of sabacc. And maybe no one has told him this, but generally it is considered rude to ignore the person giving you free alcohol.

 

But the silence radiates and grows, and it’s starting fray apart, this thing—Cassian refuses to call it a conversion, because usually words are involved in one of those. “You’re very good at that game,” and he’s trying for low and sultry, stars help him, but the music is all the sudden too loud and the pilot just squints at him in confusion.

 

“What?”

 

The captain scoots closer, leans in and repeats the compliment; Bodhi looks away, fusses at the wrapped-around jacket slipping down his hips. He shifts, and Andor can barely make out the flush on his cheeks in the murky light, “I’m alright.”

 

He nudges him with an elbow, “Probably better than alright,” and the pilot just shrugs, eyes trained on the ground. Inching closer until their legs touch, Cassian walks fingers over the stuffed pocket on the target’s thigh. “I think,” he says, near enough to see the way Bodhi’s skin goose-pimples at the light touch of his breath, “you’re actually quite good.”

 

“Ah. Aha,” he laughs, awkward and stilted and the blush darkens, “just, uh. Lucky?” He jerks a nod and retreats, moving a few inches back to meet the captain’s gaze for a quick second.

 

This can’t be the same man, the competent and easy card-sharp he watched dominate at backroom sabacc. This man, Bodhi, is timorous and takes praise reluctantly, fumbles restlessly with the damned cup.

 

This man is also clueless.

 

A fact that Cassian grows more and more certain of as he dials up the charm and closes the distance between them. He drops a palm to the pilot’s knee, “You should teach me to play. Maybe we’ll both get lucky.” The captain smirks and winks at him—hand to the stars, honestly winks at the man.

 

Steadfast in his ignorance, Bodhi doesn’t bite. “Oh,” he says, tensing away from Andor’s touch, “I, ah, don’t have my deck with me,” and pats down his pockets to make sure. He adds, “And that’s—it would take a while. It’s already late?”

 

“Well,” Cassian slips an arm over the pilot’s shoulder—tacky with sweat, his skin dark and warm—and pulls him closer, “Why don’t you come to my room, I’ve got a deck there.” His thumb rubs ellipses over skin and muscle, and Bodhi squirms against his side. “You can sleep there if I wear you out.”

 

Turning, Bodhi looks at him and his eyes widen with sincerity, “That’s alright. I have um, a bed. On my ship? I’m supposed to stay with the cargo.” At least he has the self-awareness to look a bit guilty—they’re a good healthy walk away from his payload.

 

Holding down a sigh, Cassian tries, “You can teach me there.”

 

“Uh, no. I mean, it—that’s, well. Against regulations.”

 

Damn it. But he refuses to let his grin falter, even though Cassian can’t remember the last time he flopped out so badly. Clueless. Completely, horribly and totally unaware of Andor’s flirting. It’s never been a problem before, really, because Cassian is, well—he’s handsome and can be suave enough when he wants to. He wishes the man was just playing coy; but the complete lack of anything resembling flirtation or appetite in his face leaves Cassian believing this is not a game the pilot plays often. Chin up, he thinks, Bodhi hasn’t run off yet, so maybe there’s something there? Maybe if he pushes, maybe if he’s more obvious? And short of asking him to bend over, Cassian’s not sure he can be.

 

His fingers run under a sharp jaw, gently pressing until Bodhi looks over at him; he doesn’t stop messing with the cup, his elbow brushing against Cassian’s ribs. Angling nearer, he is momentarily distracted by those deep eyes and the openness of Bodhi’s face, the way his skin glows in the filmy orange light. “We could play something else.”

 

Bodhi laughs, nervousness with little humor, “Yeah, but—well, sabacc, it’s kind of my thing, so. I don’t really know many others?”

 

Dropping his hand away from the pilot’s face—because he’s too close to his neck and the siren call to strangle him (just a little) is sounding sweeter and sweeter. Maybe the Alliance doesn’t actually need on-going contact with this Imperial pilot. Aren’t there others on that particular route? He’s starting to think torture would be easier on both on them. Certainly quicker. Completely unambiguous.

 

Cassian licks his lips and Bodhi’s not even looking which, of course not, because he’s fiddling with that kriffing cup. He grabs it—doesn’t hurl it across the room, damn it, because he’s got self-control—and sets it to the side. He brushes the dark hair back from the pilot’s neck, lets fingers amble down his spine before resting lightly on the dip of Bodhi’s back. Andor would never admit it, but those liquid-dark eyes looking up at him, earnest and bare and decent, send a shiver creeping over his resolve. But it’s there and gone, because he knows what he’s about, what this is about.

 

“Let’s try this,” Cassian says flatly, almost pressing his lips to his mark’s ear, “what can two people do in a bed together?” And Force, it has to be the least clandestine proposition ever made and he’s embarrassed, wishes he could just sink into the dirt.

 

“Um. Sleep?” Bodhi offers hopefully. The captain deflates and leans away, scrubs his face with a hand still warm from another’s skin. The silence stretches again and Cassian would like to call it regrouping, but really he’s wondering if it would compromise the mission to slap Bodhi. Open handed, he thinks, hard enough that his palm will go stingingly numb.

 

For once, the pilot takes a social que and notices Cassian’s shift in attitude; it makes him fidget more, a hand tugging at the goggle strap. “So,” he says finally, head swinging to face him, “I’ve got an early start. Maybe if I, uh, see you around, I could show you. Sabacc. It’s easier to get if you’re watching.”

 

Mustering a smile, Cassian nods pleasantly; Bodhi scoots too close to the bench’s edge and all but falls off, stumbling gracelessly to his feet. Eyes skipping around the bar, eventually settling on Cassian for a second before looking away; adjusting the googles, Bodhi gives a brief grin and twitches a wave.

 

“Okay,” the pilot says in lieu of a ‘good-bye’, slips away from the alcove and out of the bar, pockets rattling and rustling with loot.

 

Cassian grinds his teeth: this is not how he saw this night ending, had not drafted a backup plan for this deviation. This is not how these sorts of missions usually went. The pilot was thick, thick as—Force, he doesn’t know, what in the galaxy is conceivably that dense? He understood this would be a long assignment, but stars, this could take years.

 

So he fumes into another drink, lets it burn at his nose and throat and tries not to think about how the hell he’s going to find his way back through all those tunnels.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Obligatory apology for taking forever to update* So I'm trying to get my big-lady pants on and do better with updating in a timely manner, but I'm also a total dumpster-human so we'll see how that works out. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos, ya'll are golden!

 

The mission brief tells him this: kyber crystal shipments from a Mid-Rim moon have been ramping up for nearly a cycle; the local resistance clashes with Imperial occupation and turn the city into a battlefront. Information is harder to get out, murkier and full of holes, jigsaw pieces of rumor and half-seen things. The rebels know the Empire wants the crystals, is willing to militarize an entire community, kill for it—but they haven’t found a hint as to why, what any of it is for. Would be helpful knowing where the kyber ends up, but intel is meager; their informants report nothing but whispers and suspicion.

 

What the Alliance can verify reveals little, barely enough to justify the dispatch of resources. Only five cargo vessels regularly haul kyber shipments; footprints, there are always footprints, and knowing who makes them is at least a start. Unpropitiously, wherever the crystals end up isn’t listed on dock star-charts; it’s a blank, a blackout, no coordinates or vectors or anything traceable for days after departing with a shipment. This subsector boasts no major hyperspace lines, so tracking their jump trajectory is beyond Alliance nav com abilities—the only direction input is ‘ _thatway_ ’. As useful as shit-all.

 

Like a knife to a cord, their lead snaps and the temples and mines are running dry; there’s a finite supply, and Jedha grows hollow like a bird bone. And what happens then? What happens to that little moon-city when no more kyber is left to take?

 

The options are few: infiltrate Jedha’s Imperial outpost and hack into the data servers, search for projected jump vectors, and somehow get the data off-base without alerting anyone. Or, get one of the pilots to squeal. If five Imperial pilots, all assigned a similar cargo and route, up and vanish—well, that would certainly be noteworthy. So the Alliance higher-ups decide it’s a long game they need to play.

 

They get orders, five intelligence officers, one per pilot; make contact, establish a relationship, get information. And depending on an officer’s taste, there is no shortage of ways to frame up this arrangement. Blackmail and bribes are the quickest choice, but it’s always a gamble laying foundation on fear and greed. Recruiting requires more finesse, is a delicate filigree of trust and confidence and time—it’s not fast, not precise, and can convince only those whose doubts are already corrosive.

 

Cassian prefers blackmail, coercion and heavy leaning. Long run, he tells himself, it’s better for everyone involved—no lies, no uncertainties, no feelings. Everyone knows the stakes and where they stand, knows the balance-point. This target, unfortunately, is a poor candidate for his typical tactics.

 

Sure, he could make life uncomfortable for his mark; monotonous lives are simpler to disrupt. The carefully accumulated file doesn’t offer much—a humdrum, plain-as-plaster background, a few notable disciplinary actions, flight and route statistics. Personality listed as ‘nervous’ and ‘excitable’, a near-empty section of file that leads Cassian to believe his target spends much of their time alone. Not good enough to pilot a fighter, decent enough to run long-hauls with minimal supervision, noticeable only for an above average skill for jump calculations and mechanics.

 

Bland. Boring, the only repeating flare of color in an otherwise beige life is a proclivity for card-sharping. Addiction it is not—plays during lay-overs and free rotations; never excessively, rarely ends up in the hole, knows when to bow out. Finds a game with other pilots, in cantinas and game-halls and sure, some of the places are shady, but nowhere that doesn’t come with a padding of plausible deniability.

 

And there’s the hitch—his pilot’s drifting through the vague greys between legal and leg-irons. Against regulations? Obviously. Punishable, definitely. But any discipline would be a gentle, open-palmed slap compared to what the Empire does to traitors. They would kill him. It wouldn’t be quick or clean or with any kind of mercy—the Empire perfected torture early on. In a cell, some bleak and cold duracrete box, an interrogator would work him for days, for weeks, however long it took for the pilot to break. Once they’d sifted through those pieces, once every sin and every fault was naked, the pilot would die.

 

Cassian has no love for the Imperials, no affection for the coal-shovelers fueling the Empire’s flame—but there are better deaths he could wish on them.

 

No torture and no blackmail means Cassian will have to make a new friend. How wonderful for them both.

 

He falls into a circuit, a chase through hyperspace, hopping planets and moons; Cassian is left jostling from Outer Rim to Core and every damn outpost between. He aims to be Rook’s shadow—every stop, every layover, every shitty bar and dim hanger, Cassian is there. This is just recon, watch and absorb his smallest mannerism, each action and habit. All the scant filaments that wove muscle and bone and flesh, gave warm blood to a cold holo and near-empty file.

 

Over-confidence is a reaper’s scythe—he was too sure of himself, certain he would leave with an arm around a dark-eyed, copper-skinned pilot. Cassian went in blind and groping; now he’s spending what feels like cycles redressing this mistake, this oversight. He fancies blaming the pilot, because the man is well-intended but clumsy and green and so recognizably inept socially. And it’s near effortless to pin it all on Bodhi, but Cassian won’t because he’s better than that. Not morally, of course, he has no issue pointing a finger—but skill-wise, he’s so much  _better_ .

 

So now Cassian does what he should have in the first place: be a spy and collect some kriffing useful info.

 

Bodhi’s no back-breaker to tail; he has a routine, places he frequents and patterns he follows. He drinks the same drinks, wears the same uniform, performs the same tasks. The pilot is gloriously uncomplicated in his regularity; the most difficult thing is finding out where he’s docking next. The Rebellion has trackers, eyes in the dock-systems that flag the pilot’s star charts—with the expected black-out for any coordinates after departing Jedha. Cassian waits, until a com pings or someone gets him word that Bodhi’s on the move; then it’s the light of hyperspace streaking by, the noise of the ship and nothing else.

 

Usually Kay is with him to break up the silent stretches; but as a seven-foot-tall humanoid enforcement weapon, he’s entirely too noticeable. Recon is not the droid’s strength, not when he can’t even be trusted to stay on the damn ship half the time. And while Cassian is mostly nondescript, a man with a ridiculous Imperial droid looming after him would likely stick in someone’s memory. So he bares the emptiness of long space travel, plans and plots and tests his framework for faults. The rebel goes over the facts he knows, analyzes elements, logs them away for use—doesn’t forget even the smallest detail. Because the slightest thing could give him an edge, a tiny anchor to pull his target in.

 

He finds a muted peace ruminating over the pilot, a meditation while he listens to the bass rumble of the ship’s engine. Bodhi plays sabacc like music, long and clever fingers, concentration and abject expertise. He rolls a chip or coin over his knuckles like a warmup, his hands are steady and keen and don’t shake with nerves—little legerdemains, swift enough that Cassian can’t always track them.

 

He likes when Bodhi smiles, shy and with hesitation or crooked and wide when he’s had too many drinks. Apparently, Cassian is not the only one to buy him those. Not the only one to try and spark something more with the young pilot. The Imperial patch doesn’t keep everyone away; from corners and dark spaces, Cassian catches all the looks Bodhi misses. And it’s several kinds of relief that others meet with the same response as Cassian, because certainly he’s not that far off his game. His pride mends a little.  

 

The bitter flavor on his tongue is not as strong; his distaste for this man and this mission weakens, diluted with every drop of insight, every drip of understanding. Bodhi is a turning cog in the Empire’s war automaton; on him is indoctrination and fear and blood like the smell of infection. But the pilot is also kind. Bodhi has eyes that are bright and ingenuous and that remember sunlit places. He is gentle.

 

Cassian does not want to destroy this man, to slit him open and pluck and pull and strip until the Alliance has their prizes. He sees this for the weakness it is, and like a parasite he tries to rip it away before it can drain him. It’s just the isolation wearing on him, just the weight and the idea that Bodhi is a frangibleness he hasn’t been near in cycles—people like that don’t lend well to combat and cruelty. Cassian thinks the pilot has learned this already; he doesn’t want to be another reason those hands shake, another set of eyes to avoid. Stars help him, Cassian doesn’t want to hurt—

 

A com buzzes, and Cassian blinks to focus his eyes on the scrolling code; jump coordinates, Inner Rim and a long stretch of hyperspace away. Input the vectors, the hyperdrive hums and then stars are threads of light in the blackness. The captain has a location now, a planet and a plan and his mind settles into a cold void—that still place he finds on a job, where everything is clear, where it’s just the mission and there are no doubts or questions.

 

He’ll do this, and it doesn’t matter if he likes it or not because this is for the Alliance, for his family. Cassian has done worse to better people, and another red line in his ledger is not a weight heavy enough to steal his resolve. Whatever they need from Bodhi, the captain will get; drag him close, reach into him and filch anything of value.

 

Cassian does not want to damage Bodhi. Does not want to be a new crack in his scraped-together life, another sliver cut from his confidence. But he will; he would leave this man a wreckage, leave him gift-wrapped on the Empire’s doorstep if the Alliance asked it of him. No joy would come from it, but Cassian has no hesitation.

 

Because the pilot with beautiful eyes is nothing to Cassian, no more than a means to an end.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were all these good intentions to write every day, but shit's been crazy and it just didn't happen. Like, good crazy, kind of? I got a new kick-ass job, but also have to move like 6 hrs away in under 2 weeks. 
> 
> So yeah, didn't get this updated as soon as I wanted, but here's the next chapter now. It's a bit longer and gets stuff moving, so buckle your ass up. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, and it's just super to hear from you; please let me know what you think!

 

The city drowns, rain slicking dark metal to mirrors, turns the streets to liquid neon with reflected lights and holos. So much water does so little to wash away the stench of life and all its bi-products; the pavement is layered with garbage, murky with filth and crawling with skittering red-eyed things. Despite the downpour, the walkways are clogged with foot traffic, and above them—lost in fog and exhaust and pollution—speeders whiz through skylanes like a droning heartbeat.

 

Through the borough, Cassian rambles with the crowd, ignoring the bodies brushing his and concentrates on the steady bob of one particular figure. With standard-issue rain gear and a fucking stupid rain-hat, the pilot melds seamlessly with the slow tide of waterlogged jackets and weather-proofing. Which is smart, and probably a complete accident on Bodhi’s part because the man’s got no common sense or any of the things that prepare you for daily life. Either way, it’s a good choice, one that Cassian also makes; hood up, the wet fur trim of his parka sticks to his face and the whole thing soaks up water until it’s squishy with extra weight. Easier to go unnoticed like this, even better with the crowd to hide in.

 

Not that his target even bothers to look; Rook trudges on, face forward and shoulders hunched to protect his neck from the steady pour. Seems to know where he’s headed, and Cassian thanks the stars that one of them does, because he most certainly does not—this isn’t a planet he frequents. Too close to Coruscant for his comfort, full of dark and poisonous blood pumping from the Empire’s heart. But Rebellion eyes flagged his target hopping on the Perlimian, Core-bound; now Cassian’s got his star-charts, knows where he’s docking and just manages to beat the man there. It gives him enough time to rent bay space and hoof it over to the Imperial base; he’s glad Bodhi’s in a rush, too, because there’s only so much loitering you can do around a military facility in a kriffing monsoon.

 

They walk for a while, rain and flashing lights in Cassian’s eyes, and the crowds thin out; no longer homes and respectable businesses, Bodhi’s led him to an entertainment sector—signs bright and ripe like fruit to entice, music clashing from a dozen open doors, the heavy scent of spice and grease from street-food vendors. Bars, gambling halls and companion houses, tiny alleyway shops; it’s no Uscru, but it’s one of the more impressive places his target has brought him to. He stalks behind, and the buildings get less lux, less glamorous and glowing and Cassian has the suspicion this isn’t the friendliest place to be.

 

Finally, Bodhi dodges through the trickle of pedestrians and into the open door of a clean-faced, squat structure. Cassian glances at the name—curling, cherry-bright symbols he doesn’t know—and keeps walking. Down past a few more buildings before wrapping back around the block, finds the rolling red letters and creeps in. Holovids flicker in the corners, on the walls hang patterned tapestries beside brand advertisements; in the back, men puff on narrow medwakhs and blow smoke through their noses. Low tables, thick metal with recessed lights curving around the edges, pulsing ambient yellow and gold.

 

No seats are open at the bar, so Cassian orders a drink to sips and anchors his hip against the counter. There’s dice games running, cards and dejarik and screens to watch the podraces. Bodhi, of course, settled into a sabacc game and is dutifully cultivating a pile of loot. He’s already got three empty cups near his elbow, body loose and reclining low in his seat; his damp hair curls and clings to his skin, sleek in the light. 

 

And he can’t be sure when it becomes acceptable to enjoy this, watching Bodhi—to appreciate the long arc of his neck, the strong line of his nose, the lean span of his waist. His beard’s grown these past months, and the rebel wonders how soft it would feel against his lips. How soft  _Bodhi’s_ lips would feel, gentle maybe, on Cassian’s neck and stomach and hungrier the lower they get. How that long hair feels, dark like pitch, like ink spreading over his fingers and palms.

 

Andor shifts, his hip aching against the hard metal corner, uncomfortable with his own distraction. He’s not  _daydreaming_ , of course not. Cassian’s  _preparing_ , plotting, because how is it supposed to work otherwise? He’s certain he knows why the first try failed, reasoned it out drifting in some Nowhere sector of space: Bodhi saw through him; some part of the ensign felt him out, like a rabbit feels a hunter’s eyes without ever seeing them. The pilot knew in that left-over animal part of his brain that there was no truth in Cassian, saw the hollowness of his thin flirtation. But Cassian is ready now, he’s had time—layering all his thoughts of Bodhi and curiosities and emotions like a lacquer.

 

Until his mask is a beautiful thing, deep and facetted and human enough to convince anything. Especially a star-brained nobody like Bodhi Rook. 

 

It’s the start of another round; a person gets up, several more sit, and Bodhi orders another drink. Which, okay, Cassian has seen the man drink before, but not so much or so fast; and after scoping him out for so long, the rebel can tell when something’s off. None of the usual energy, like his head is lost in some other galaxy and his eyes focused anywhere but the present. Moody,  _brooding_  even; Cassian can’t guess at what other shadow’s chasing the pilot, and he can’t waste the time figuring it out. Whatever’s going on has the potential to complicate or simplify. So Rook’s feeling down, depressed or worried or worn-out, and that makes him vulnerable, a hole in armor for Andor to wiggle through. Maybe he needs a friend, an open shoulder, a warm circle of arms to give comfort. Or he’s feeling angry, paranoid and cautious and wanting nothing to do with what Cassian’s selling. 

 

So the rebel remains at his post, judging and waiting. One of the new-comers at the sabacc table watches, too; a few seats to Bodhi’s left, a man pays more attention to the pilot than his own cards. A dark-tanned stranger with cropped hair, black and shot through with gray; he’s heavier and much more worn, yet still shares a likeness with Bodhi. In fact, so do at least half the humans present—that red-brown skin, dark hair and eyes and Cassian very quickly realizes why Bodhi’s chosen this place. 

 

Deep in the core, far away from its inspiration, this is a tiny piece of Jedha. A tiny piece of Bodhi’s home, something comfortable and familiar and understood. 

 

And he’s so wrapped up in this idea that Cassian misses the beginning of their conversation. The man’s talking, and the rebel isn’t close enough to hear a word of it, but judging from his sharp eyes and sneer, it’s not pleasantries. Bodhi responds, lips thinning to a frown and nobody’s even pretending to play anymore, watching the two men and what’s bubbling between them. The silence stretches for several moments and then the man’s out of his chair, hauling Bodhi up by the front of his uniform. The guy’s bigger, stronger, which apparently doesn’t register at all with Rook, who glares right up into his face and refuses to flinch away. 

 

The man hisses something at the pilot’s face, which Bodhi challenges with a “What the fuck would you know about it?” Loud enough for Cassian to hear, loud enough for the whole bar to hear and start side-eyeing this drama. 

 

“You’re bleeding it dry!” The stranger shakes Bodhi for emphasis; Cassian is creeping closer, slowly palming the handle of his hidden knife. Free hand jabbing a finger into the pilot’s chest, he continues, “That’s your  _home_. What’s your family thi—”

 

Bodhi levers a forearm into the man’s throat, silencing him with choke and shoving him back with a stumble. “You don’t know  _shit_ —” he grits out before they’re lunging for each other. Watching them scuffle, Cassian starts to understand why the file refers to his target as ‘excitable’; and as amusing as it is to watch two drunk morons brawl, he actually needs one of them alive and with brain matter intact. 

 

Before Cassian can step in, the dealer—towering thing with four arms and a quivering wattle—pries them apart. It grunts, “We good?”

 

Bodhi jerks a nod, wipes at his bloody nose and absent-mindedly smooths the red liquid through his frizz. Pacing a step or two, watches his attacker until the man storms out of the bar; the pilot’s attention lingers on the door, hard and narrowed and wary like a feral thing. Paces a few more steps, heads for the bar to gulp down another shot. 

 

Cassian takes his time though, lets his target respire to calmness, lets the tremor slip out of his hands and the tension from his back until he’s hunched over the metal top. There’s seats open now, empty on the pilot’s left and right, a tiny pocket of stillness. Of avoidance. Which is all the better for the captain, who slides onto a stool and rests his elbows against the surface. 

 

Flagging down something to swig on, Andor catalogues his mark from the corner of his eye. Blood oozes from his nose, down his lips and chin; the beginning of bruises smear over his cheek and jaw. Half his hair is freed from a low pony-tail, drying chaotic and lawless around his face. Red splatters on his rumpled uniform, but he’s alive and functional and not terribly scuffed up. 

 

“Rough night?” Cassian broaches. Bodhi doesn’t turn, but dark eyes flicker in his direction; hesitant and chary, all nerves and dead embers. No answer, but he goes stiff when the rebel starts to dig through a pocket, pulls out a scrap of rag and offers it to the pilot. “Here,” Cassian volunteers; Bodhi turns to stare at the cloth like it’s an alien novelty, completely beyond his working knowledge.  _Force help me,_  Cassian pleads to some higher power, shakes the rag at him, “For your face,” the man’s eyes narrow in confusion, and the captain mimes at his own nose and mouth, “there’s some blood.”

 

Brow relaxing, comprehension echoed in his eyes and how he straightens up enough to reach for Cassian’s charity. Gingerly, slow like it’s a trap and he’s waiting for something cold and metal and pitiless to close around his fingers, crush them. Cassian sits static, carefully un-moving and makes sure their hands don’t graze, tries not to spook him. The captain’s been picking about his life for weeks, for months; he’s got a running index filled with all sorts of useful or interesting or endearing things Cassian can’t make himself let go of. A particular note in his mind, cross-referenced with his blundering first attempt, is that no one really touches the pilot. Not often with intent, and rarely with kindness.

 

He rubs at the mess, smearing and wiping with sharp jerks; there’s no anger left in Bodhi’s face, no fire or venom or anything other than that resigned gloom, a dim ghost over his features. It’s a shit job, hardly gets half of it cleaned off and Cassian doesn’t miss the grimace when the pilot licks the blood off his lips. He folds the little rag, fingers shaking only a trace as he smooths a torn edge wet with red. Appreciative, almost reverent. 

 

Pushing the folded ruin of cloth between them, Bodhi squints through the alcohol and into clearer places, sets his jaw. “I’ve met you. We’ve—yeah, we’ve met?” 

 

It’s a pleasant sort of feeling, because Cassian is half-convinced—and half hopeful—that the pilot wouldn’t remember him. He chuckles, shifts to face him more and smiles mellow and real, nothing cocky or hungry, nothing that would startle his flighty target. “You promised to teach me sabacc.”

 

A moment, Bodhi’s full attention on him like a beam, eyes wide and alert; and it pulls at Cassian, grabbing like he’s the only floating thing in miles and miles and miles of coal-black water. But it’s a second, a flash before the pilot’s bulwarks wrap back around him and he looks away, face smoothing to forced neutrality. 

 

“Yeah. I probably did,” he shrugs and writes patterns on the counter-top with condensation.

 

Cassian won’t press him, offers instead, “Or we could just sit here and get blitzed.” It coaxes a laugh from the pilot, curves his lips with relief.

 

It’s a couple of hours, sitting and maybe not getting shit-faced, but defiantly drinking more than what’s prescribed. They don’t talk, not at first, but the quiet is comfortable and as the air between them warms, his target unwinds. Slow, like every individual muscle is relaxing one-by-one. He sits straighter for it, his back a beautiful line of posture even through his over-large flight suit. And Cassin thinks that once, years and years before the Academy, Bodhi must have held himself with pride—he sees a hint of it as tension releases from his shoulders and spine. Some brassy part of him not spied out and ripped away in his service to the Order.

 

What things the Empire took from him, what they have whittled him down to.

 

When he’s judged it long enough, Cassian starts chatting at him. Open ended things about cities and planets and all the nondescript sort of details from his months of chasing. Bodhi listens, more and more generous with his eye contact until it’s like they’re carrying on a stars-be-damned actual conversation. Rook is surprised to learn that they frequent many of the same planets and places and Cassian has to act surprised at this ‘coincidence’. He never asks what Ves does for a living.

 

If talking about travel and all the worlds they drop in and out of warms Bodhi up, talking about ships ignites him. The pilot is downright  _passionate_ about flying and every spec of mechanical knowledge that makes it possible. Cassian talks about mods and maintenance and how his ship handles, and Bodhi nods along and askes,  _have you tried this_ and  _well what about that_. They swap piloting feats and ridiculous adventures—names, places, and affiliations redacted, obviously, because they’re still walking the borders of their personal lives. A distant ‘what if’, another among millions and millions and piles that grow steeper every second, Cassian thinks they could have been friends. If it wasn’t for the wars, if it wasn’t for some fate that set their wheels on different roads. But it brings nothing, no purpose or result to think in ‘ifs’.

 

So he settles for now, this moment, two unrepentant lushes swapping stories. Bodhi’s going on about the worst conditions to fly in, shitty terras half made of fire or dense jungles or ice flows. About nearly crashing a few months ago, trying to steer blinded by heavy rain and clouds and fog through a gorge lined in jutting rock. And it’s not any great story, mostly since the pilot’s a shit narrator, but Cassian finds himself grinning, enjoying the scattered rehash. Because Bodhi looks comfortable, his nervous movement now choreographed gestures; his face is alive, expressive eyebrows and bright eyes and a dopey grin. His energy is vivid, brilliant and infectious. So Andor honestly is only sort of listening to Bodhi ramble but stars, he just likes looking at the guy.

 

He lets the pilot finish, and sure that he’s overlooked it somewhere, asks, “What planet was this?” And kriffing-damn-it if Bodhi doesn’t snap is mouth shut and look away, panic sliding across his face before it closes off completely.

 

“It’s, ah. Well it’s…” He stops, takes a few shallow breaths and it does nothing to smooth out his voice, but at least he gets out, “Well, see, the barracks have curfew, and. Um. Pretty soon here, I-I’m going to head out.” Bodhi fumbles out a few credits from a pocket to set by his the empty glasses, tucks his poncho under an arm. “I’ll see you. Around.” He manages to keep ahold of the rebel’s eyes, doesn’t wilt under the evident, startled confusion there.

 

Getting his feet under him takes a moment—he wobbles, blinking and unstable—and it gives Andor an opening to rebound. He does touch Bodhi then, a pressure at his wrist and it’s not enough to hold him still or anything, just enough to halt his sloppy exit. “Hold on, hold on,” his hand moves to cup the pilot’s elbow, “forget it.” Cassian makes a throw-away gesture, “There, forgotten. Talk about something else.”

 

Torn, eyes moving between the captain and the stool he’d vacated, worrying his lip in clear indecision. But he’s looking anywhere but Cassian’s face when he mumbles, “I wasn’t, ah, there really is a curfew. For service members staying on-base. They’ll be angr—they’ll write me up.”

 

Shit.  _Shit._  Whatever comradery spouting between them shrivels and Cassian is pissed because he was so kriffing  _close_ , he knows it! He huffs jokingly, willing his hand to stay relaxed and not dig his fingers into his target’s arm, bruise him. “Just stay for a while, an hour, whatever. We can talk about the kriffing weather, I don’t care.”

 

But Bodhi’s itching like a spooked thing, pulls his arm away to wring his hands together, “I like talking. With you. But I gotta go,” and he shifts, left-foot-right-foot, ready to run.

 

Ah, fuck, he’s lost his chance. Exasperated, Cassian rolls his eyes, argues, “Come on, it’s not like they’ll send Vader after you for being an hour or two late…” His words desert him, fly away and out of his head, fast as all the color drains from Bodhi’s face and that’s not right, not normal. His eyes are distant for a trice, wide and staring; when he breaches up from his mind, there’s such a naked fear there that for an irrational millisecond, Cassian expects to hear the hiss of a respirator.

 

Using the captain’s sudden disorientation, the pilot mumbles, “Night,” jockeys clear of his reach and out into the rain. Damn, what a mess he’s making of this, and the captain’s cursing and the other patrons are paying too much attention, too many eyes—he’s scrambling out of the bar, wrestling on his still-dripping coat. He trots to catch up, which isn’t difficult considering Bodhi’s in an alley two blocks up; facing a grimy wall, stooped with his forehead resting on the building, palms braced and eyes squeezed closed.

 

“Bodhi,” Cassian says and drops a hand to his shoulder; the man yelps, jumping out of his skin and nearly falling on his ass. Well, just throw another log on the Guilt Fire, because the pilot’s shivering and still taking little hiccup-y inhales and his eyes are these huge wells of glass painted with street lights and neon. Andor’s got his hands out to pacify him, calm him and Holy Suns he’s stepped way out of his depth and he shouldn’t be feeling bad for triggering all of this because it’s only a target. Still, He’s got to see this through; it’s his duty and his job and the very beat of his heart but none of that makes him feel any less like a pile of shit.

 

“Hey, hey,” he croons, loading his voice with stillness and reassurance and what he hopes is comfort, “Slow down. Deep breaths, in and out, like this,” and he inhales through his nose,  _one two three,_  and out through his mouth,  _one two three_. And when he thinks the pilot’s got it down, he just babbles nonsense and soft words of encouragement, because he’s been there, they all have and this sort of thing happens a lot when you’re fighting a war.

 

The man’s looking at him now, still wary and tense like he might make a run for it if Cassian moves wrong. “Sorry,” the rebel offers, “I shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have tried to push you.”

 

It doesn’t seem to help anything; Bodhi keeps on staring at him with this greasy mixture of doubt and distrust and something achingly heavy with pain. He’s about to open his mouth, but the pilot starts talking, in this small and wobbly and insistent voice: “I saw him once, you know? Sometimes they tour the academies. For morale. But, I saw him and they’d caught these resistance fighters outside the city like a week before and they made—they dragged them to this platform. It was an assembly, they told us it was an assembly, yeah? They made us watch. What he did. Didn’t even touch them, and I mean, I guess he doesn’t need to but they died and we all just watched and the whole time this general is talking over the sounds. Of them choking, the sounds, about consequences and loyalty an—” he gasps, shudders for air and stumbles to collapse against the wall. Filthy water soaking into his uniform, Bodhi cranes his head back to let the drops hit his face, eyes closed as he remembers to breathe like Cassian showed him.

 

Glad for the rain, so Cassian doesn’t have to see the tears and can go on pretending that he’s not watching a grown man break apart. And it’s a lonely thing, standing in a dark alley, feet away from lights and noise and a world that doesn’t stop.

 

Where to even start? The captain hasn’t had a lot of sensitivity training, can’t think of a single set of words that would make any of this better. Because who’s he kidding, this galaxy’s spinning down a wormhole and how can you even sugarcoat that? He makes his way over to lean on the wall, gradually and far enough that he’s not crowding in on Bodhi; just in reach, just enough that the pilot can feel someone nearby, know that he’s not been abandoned. The deep breathing seems to help, and the shakes slow and he can take a whole breath in without choking on it. They stay fixed and unmoving until Rook’s back in his head enough to stagger up, props himself closer to Cassian. He rubs the heel of his palms over his eyes, heaves a shaky sigh and the rebel can see shame spread blotchy and red along his cheeks.

 

“Ah, shit.” Bodhi curses and scrubs at his face a final time, “Stars. That’s, well, it usually doesn’t happen. To me. Usually, like, not much at all. I’m just, um, not...” His voice fades out, unfished thoughts and he tries to run fingers through his hair but it’s wet and tangled up under the goggles. “What I mean is, uh, that I’m sorry. For that. I shouldn’t have said that. Those things. What I said, sounded…well, I didn’t mean for it to sound like, you know. And those people,” Bodhi flinches, face sour, “they were traitors, right? So the Order was—”

 

“Bodhi,” Andor cuts his babbling off gently, shrugs. “Like I said, rough night.” What he really doesn’t want to hear is this man justify the Empire’s crimes, even if it’s out of fear, even if the pilot knows what he’s said could raise suspicion. Would require reprograming. But it’s the first real distaste for the Order he’s seen in Bodhi; and damn, Cassian wouldn’t have thought him capable of hiding it so well, likes the way it looks on him.

 

He nods along eagerly, “Yeah. Yes, bad ah, night. Which you know, I’m sorry. For that. I’m sorry for that.” He’s working himself up again, lungs speeding up and eyes going big and Cassian feels like once is more than enough for right now. He’d barely handled the first one, andif Bodhi starts in on that shit again he might knock the bastard out.

 

So he says, real even and smooth, “You don’t have to be sorry.”

 

Nodding again, “Okay, yes. But, I really am—”

 

“Bodhi,” Cassian warns, firm.

 

There, that does it and Bodhi just sinks into himself, like the fear and panic and screaming nerves were rushing out of him and nothing was left inside to hold him up. He sags fully against the wall, lolls his head towards Cassian and regards him cautiously, hopefully. “Well”, he tries, stops, tries again, “well. Then, thank you.”

 

Cassian lifts his eyebrows, a non-verbal ‘what for’.

 

“For, ah,” his target fiddles with a belt loop and picks his words. “For not, um. For not leaving. Me.” Oh, stars—he’s  _blushing,_ tugging at his jacket like a nervous little kid, shy and sweet and very fragile.

 

Shimmying closer until their shoulders touch, Cassian smiles at him, likes the way his face gets even more flushed. “Any time.” And Bodhi grins back a little more, looking down and angles slightly toward the rebel. Solid and warm and even half-drowned he looks amazing.

 

“I…I meant it,” he says, still glowing like a sun, running his fingers down the smooth sides of his goggles, clearly avoid the rebel’s eyes.  

 

“What?” Cassian prods.

 

“Talking to you. That, um, I like it.”

 

Yes, the rebel thinks, he likes talking to Bodhi, too. When it’s engines and drives and backwater, nothing planets they’ve visited. When the captain can see fire in him, slivers of light like cracks through the Empire’s moldings. Cassian says, “We can talk more, you know.”

 

“Yeah, okay. Great. Well not, you know. Now.” The pilot looks over at him, nervous and quick to clarify: “I—I wasn’t lying. About the curfew,” and jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the base. “But, I’d like to buy you a drink. As, ah, as a thank you.”

 

“Tell me when. Where.” Rook blesses him with a grin, and it’s small but sunny and genuine and sets Cassian’s heart on its side.

 

Arms barely touching, half-shielded from the rain but already soaked, the wall supports them as they conspire a When and Where. Cassian can’t be too available, can’t jump at the earliest choice because he’s got an identity to hold together: Ves travels for his work, has interests all over the galaxy and can’t drop them all at the slightest notice. Ves has responsibilities. And Bodhi hasn’t seen him for months—it might be strange to suddenly be stopping at all the same places. They haggle, softly and with their heads bowed close, until they settle on a place, a common ground between their wandering lives, two standard weeks from now.

 

Bodhi scoops his rain-gear off the alley pavement, stiff and gawky and shrugs, “I’ll see you later, so,” he offers a weird little wave, “g’night.”

 

All Cassian’s brain can say is  _now now now_ , and he’s not really thinking of anything else but closing that space between them. “Bodhi,” the rebel says, and he looks up at his name just as Andor is reaching for him. Hand so light against the nape of his neck, lifting his chin. Eyes—umber and chasmal and magnetizing—send vibrations rolling though him. And deftly, cautiously, delicate as the air and rain around them, Cassian presses his lips to Bodhi’s.

 

Only a quick little thing, and still it sends embers fizzing through his blood. In that second—when it’s quiet and it’s just them close and breathing each other and there’s nothing else in his brain but Bodhi’s smell and how bright his eyes are—Cassian wants many things. He wants to kiss the man until no oxygen is left and they’re both panting, slam him up against a wall and speak only with his teeth and hands and tongue. Pull that long hair and see that kind of sounds it gets him, spread those legs wider with a knee.

 

But Cassian does none of those things, only traces the curve of his jaw with a thumb, smiles and steps back. Bodhi’s wide-eyed, mouth open just a bit, and blushing like mad; to which, the rebel offers a “Goodnight, Bodhi.”

 

Still red-faced, Bodhi nods and gives him a hesitant grin and another half-wave before jogging out of the alley. A ways up the street, thoughtful fingers brush where a stranger’s lips had been moments ago; something Cassian does not miss as the foggy streets swallow his target. Shoving his hands into sopping pockets, Andor tries to warm himself. It’s not a comfort, doesn’t help thaw him at all. The captain waits, minutes stacked together, until Bodhi is long out of sight; there’s no need to follow, no need for hiding in dark patches and snooping.

 

And Cassian knows, that’s it. The pilot, in so many words, is his. It isn’t going to take blackmail or torture or money or any of the many things the Rebellion could offer Bodhi for his cooperation, for his knowledge. All he has to give is a little kindness, a little taste of friendship and affection, like the water of company to a parched man. To listen, to show interest and take notice.

 

He knows this, like a creeping sickness, cold and aching. Cassian hands the pilot ruin like chains, and Bodhi wraps himself in them gladly.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and advice appreciated! 
> 
> And, hey, hit [me](http://hyena-poison.tumblr.com/) up on tumblr.


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